Cheaper by the Dozen

Upon the occasion of their twelfth sexual conquest, Mora’s heart, brain, and vagina reflect upon sex, love, loneliness, the disappearance of nervousness, and various and sundry reprecussions of an even dozen. 

♥

Heart was all in.  As you know, she is ridiculously enthusiastic and optimistic in such matters.  Brain thought it might be a good idea.  She approves of Goc, just as Constance does.  Vagina was on the fence (probably straddling it… humping it…), but she’ll try anything once.   You know her.

All agreed we should move forward, and the decision didn’t arise out of some rushed, desperate midnight conclave, of the sort which had resolved to sleep with Donny on that sad, sad night last last October.  The vote for sex also wasn’t the result of the kind of  starving, hedonistic Afternoon Delight Caucus which had first, eagerly, gratefully, opted to have sex with Detective Curt on that memorable day in December, 2007.  

No.  It was a carefully considered question.  All parties made their arguments.  All points of view were heard and considered.  All repercussions and ramifications carefully thought through.  Everyone had her turn at the podium and all all were in accord.   So we fucked him. 

♥

We lay back on the couch, Goc on top of us, caressing our breasts, grinding his penis against our hips, and slipping his fingers back and forth between the fairly wet lips of our freshly waxed pussy.  And it was just fine.  Really nice, in fact.  

Goc understands Heart’s yearning for love, Brain’s need for stimulation, and Vagina’s yen for excitement.  He gave a little kung fu bow to each of the girls.  They batted their eyelashes and bowed back, mostly so he would notice and appreciate their butt, and then they suggested all parties progress into the bedroom.  So they did. 

The kissing was good.  The caressing was really good: not all sensitive and overly gentle, yet also not exclusively corporal.  We could tell he was happy to be there with us.  We could tell this was important to him.  Maybe a little too important. 

♥

Goc’s penis wouldn’t cooperate.  After we got to the bedroom, it only became kind of semi-hard.  Hard enough to get a condom on, hard enough for insertion, but not hard enough to really make an impression, if you know what I mean. 

He told us that in the two years since he’d been divorced, this had never before happened.  We  believed him, perhaps because it was true, or perhaps because he linked it to a flattering compliment, which was that he liked us a little too much and it all felt a little too important.   

He had definitely seemed nervous that first night we kissed, but the kissing was smooth and assured this time.  We hope now the sex will follow suit: nervous and uncertain the fist time; all the kinks ironed out the second. 

We like him a lot, but we have our concerns about a lack of spark.  We don’t want to bite his neck and crawl away while he writhes in agony, as we did with Valentine Dave.  That was terribly painful for all concerned, and we must avoid a repeat performance. 

♥♥♥

My lifetime total of sexual partners is now twelve.  Twelve penises in my pussy is what it literally means.  But what else? 

Twelve men I’ve kissed.  Twelve men who’ve seen me naked.  Twelve men whose penises I’ve manipulated.  And a partridge in a pear tree. 

Here’s something: I am no longer nervous before having sex with a man for the first time.  I’ve teed up with Tiger Woods.  I’ve golfed a few rounds with Jack Nicklaus.  I’ve shared a drink on the nineteenth hole with Ben Hogan.  I’m a sex pro.  (That’s not quite what I meant…) 

Part of me is relieved the nervousness is all gone, but part of me is sad about it, too: the innocence has vanished; the novelty is diminished; and the sex is a bit depreciated.  I guess it’s not only eggs that come cheaper by the dozen. 

♥

I just got off the phone with Goc.  At the very end of our conversation, he said “Bye, Darlin’.” 

“Goodnight, Goc,” I said. 

“Goodnight Mora.”

It gave me such a warm, loved feeling to hear him speak my name. 

“I really liked it when you said my name just before we hung up.” I e-mailed him almost immediately. 

“I like to say your name, Mora.” he e-mailed right back. 

And nothing at all about that exchange felt cheap. 

♥ Mora 

Filed under: Games of Chance , dating, divorce, love, sex

A Guardianship of the Heart

Things are becoming  more intense with Goc (Games of Chance).  We e-mail back and forth all day while we’re working.  He says sweet things to me that make my heart flutter,  like “I have to tell you, it makes me happy to see an e-mail from you. Happens every time.”  

Today, I sent him a joke which he read out of context and misunderstood to mean I wasn’t serious about him.  He wrote me that his  “heart jumped in [his] throat a bit.”  He addresses me as “Hey, Gorgeous,” and we talk on the phone almost every night, usually for over an hour.

At the same time, I’m on a dating website.  There are some serious contenders there, including a boyfriend/girlfriend couple who are looking for a submissive third.  I am not even kidding.  I’m seriously considering them.  They seem nice.  (Am I crazy?)

Here’s another layer in my wild love parfait: I e-mailed Detective Curt tonight.  He’s been hot and heavy after me lately, sending me porn and writing me delicious, sexy e-mails.  As you know, I never quite got him out of my system.  And now, I’m free to cut myself a piece of peanut butter pie.  Yum. 

Still, though, I’m feeling myself bonding to Goc.  Do I really like him so much, or is this another case of drug seeking by a serious addict of man medication?  I really couldn’t tell you.  In fact, looking back on last few years, I would be hard pressed to tell you which men I really loved and which I was using to self medicate. 

I just don’t trust myself anymore when it comes to men, which is why today I’ve found myself wishing that I could engage some kind of Guardian for my heart.  Someone to say “no, no, little girl,” or “yes, this one is all right,” or, “Stop fantasizing!  He’s not interested!”  (Yes, there’s one of those, too.)   

If I could, I really would give my heart over to Mr. Freeze or Constance or Therapeutic Ramblings  for three to six months to manage.  I just don’t trust myself with it.   And everyone knows the one thing you need to make love work is  trust.

♥ Mora

Filed under: Detective Curt, Games of Chance, man medication , dating, divorce, love, sex

A Little Too Sad

I went out on a date tonight with Games of Chance.  (I’ll name him Goc.)   At the very end, we kissed and kind of lightly made out on his green-brown bachelor couch.  I don’t know. 

Donny and I just broke up on Tuesday night.  It had been eight months we’d gone out together.  He was my first legit relationship in years.  It was good for me.  He was sweet and smart and thoughtful.  And gorgeous.  He was gorgeous.  His gorgeousness never got old for me.  I was so physically comfortable with him and it felt right in his arms and in his presence.  But he didn’t love me and he was never  going to.  I gave up comfort and good sex with Donny for a long shot at love.  With someone.  Someday. 

So Goc had his considerable arms around me and he was kissing me, and at first it as way too slow, because we just didn’t have enough sexual tension to pull off kissing that slowly.  Not like it had been with Sergeant Shane.  But it improved.  So Goc is kissing me, but I couldn’t help thinking about Donny.  His really nice face kept popping into my head while my lips were brushing Goc’s and my tongue was in Goc’s mouth.  And I felt a little guilty, like I was cheating on Donny. 

Then, I got angry.  “Fuck him,” I thought.  “He never loved me.  I was all there for him.  Everything a man should want.  And he never loved me.  He just didn’t.  Fuck him.  I’m going to have fun with Goc.”  But I didn’t quite enjoy it.  I was a little too sad.  

“I want to take you into the other room,” Goc said to me.  I knew he didn’t mean the kitchen, and I flashed back to that first terrible night with Donny.  “No,” I said.  I’m not a sex machine anymore.  Horny Housewife was the sex kitten.  Mora is a cat. 

 ♥

There’s something wrong with the battery in the smoke detector in my bedroom.  It keeps chirping, but it’s hard-wired, so I’m not sure what to do.  I’ll call my alarm company tomorrow, but how am I going to sleep tonight?  It’s so chirpy and chipper and loud.  It’s telling me to do something.  Telling me I need something.  Keeping me from resting.  Telling me there’s more, but not how to get it.  How am I ever going to sleep?

Mora

Filed under: Games of Chance , dating, divorce, love, sex

Memorial Barbecue

Something is missing.  I am hungry for something else.  I am lonely, though perhaps I shouldn’t be. 

I went outside today and cleaned up my backyard for the first time this year.  I had never touched the barbecue before.  It was my husband’s.  It felt wrong to my fingers, as though I’d come across a man’s shaving brush and razor; rightfully outside of my purview. 

I turned one of the burners on.  “Just push down and turn, Mora, just like on your stove,” I told myself.  So I did.  I wanted to become accustomed to it.  I wanted to feel comfortable with myself, without a man to operate my barbecue.  I made myself turn each of the burners on and then off.  I smelled gas, but refused to panic.  The smell went away.  Everything was okay. 

Remember “Games of Chance” guy?  When I went back inside he had posted the following status update on Facebook: “Looking for a good barbecue.  Anyone have a suggestion?”  I swear to God.  That was what it said.  I didn’t reply. 

Donny remains in the picture.  I don’t know if he is not enough for me, or if he doesn’t want to give me all that I want, or if no one can ever give me all that I want.  I still want more. 

♥Mora

Filed under: Games of Chance, man medication , dating, divorce, love, sex

Games of Chance

Getting ready to leave the house now for a lunch date with a man I’ve known by e-mail for a while, but never met.  I suggested we meet at the library.  He suggested we meet in the 795 section of the Dewy Decimal System: Games of Chance.  He is very funny. 

Even though Donny and I have broken up, I feel like I am cheating on him.  We still e-mail and talk every day.  I think he’s depressed.  It makes me feel better that perhaps this has been hard on him as well.  Did we break up too soon?  Did I let go of him too easily? 

Or, is it just very hard for me to accept when a relationship is over?  I think I need to be careful, here, not to commit myself too fervently to making things with Donny “work.”    I miss him a lot, but that doesn’t mean we were right for each other. 

I miss him.  What do I do? 

I want to believe that there is a “right” answer here, but maybe there isn’t.  Maybe I just need to do whatever feels right at the moment. 

Maybe we should file “Love” in the 795 section of the Dewey Decimal System, under “Games of Chance.” 

Mora

Filed under: Games of Chance, donny , dating, divorce, love, sex